“Cyrus,” he said, “I am not accustomed to run at the beck and call of my—er—acquaintances, but, even though we have disagreed of late, even though to me your conduct seems quite unjustifiable, still, for the sake of our boyhood friendship, and, because you are not well, I—er—came.”
Captain Cy coughed spasmodically, a cough that seemed to be tearing him to pieces. He looked at his cigar regretfully, and laid it on the top of the radiator.
“Too bad,” he observed. “Tobacco gen'rally iles up my talkin' machinery, but just now it seems to make me bark like a ship's dog shut up in the hold. Why, yes, Heman, I see you've come. Much obliged to you.”
This politeness was still more encouraging. Atkins leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs.
“I presume,” he said, “that you wish to ask concerning the appropriation. I regret—”
“You needn't. I guess we'll get the appropriation.”
Heman's condescension vanished. He leaned forward and uncrossed his legs.
“Indeed?” he said slowly, his eyes fixed on the captain's placid face.
“Yes—indeed.”
“Whittaker, what are you talking about? Do you suppose that I have been the representative of my people in Congress all these years without knowing whereof I speak? They left the matter in my hands, and your interference—”